The Musketeers: Idioms
by rusticautumn
Summary: A series of one-shots influenced/prompted by well-known idioms (full description inside). Chapter One: Going Out on a Limb - Porthos must, literally, reach out in order to save Aramis.
**AN/ So this is the first in a series of one-shots. The plan is to write one-shots for The Musketeers, influenced by idioms and other common catch-phrases. Sometimes, these will take the idioms literally, and other times, will follow their intended meaning. For example, this chapter/one-shot takes the phrase "Going out on a limb" rather literally.**

 **This is a work-in-progress. I have a couple of other chapters/ idioms/ ideas lined up, and will write them as I go. They will mostly all be stand-alone from each other. If anyone would like to post prompts, I'd be happy to take those on-board.**

 **Generally, stories will focus on one or all of the Inseparables. There may be the occasional focus on some of the other characters (e.g. Constance or Treville). I do like my hurt/comfort, so that will be a common theme, but there will also be other themes used throughout, depending on where the muse takes me.**

 **I hope you enjoy!**

Disclaimer: I do not own the BBC's The Musketeers.

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 _ **Going Out on a Limb (summary)**_

 _ **Porthos must, literally, reach out in order to save Aramis.**_

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 **Going Out on a Limb**

At any other time, in any other circumstance, Porthos loved to be out on the rooftops.

During his time living in the Court of Miracles, he had learnt every route across the Parisian roofs. It was a whole new layer of streets and dens that were excellent for making a quick escape, or for tracking someone down on the lower streets without being detected.

Even now, years after he'd left the court to join the musketeers, he still often found his way up to the rooftops. When up there he was very rarely disturbed, and he was yet to find a better place to view the sunrise, and he'd seen plenty of those over the years of travelling on duty.

But at the moment, the rooftop was granting neither privacy nor quiet. Right now, it was ringing with the clash of metal on metal.

Chasing the thieves through the Parisian streets had led the Inseparables into a dilapidated warehouse, and eventually, up to its roof. The thieves were quick on their feet and were not afraid to fight back now that they were cornered, but the warped warehouse roof, and its five storey drop to the hard unforgiving ground below, made for a less than ideal fighting ground for both parties.

Porthos roared as he finally pushed his opponent down, ramming the pommel of his blade into the thieves head, dropping him, but not killing him. His chest heaving, not yet quite recovered from the chase that had led them to this spot, Porthos looked out across the roof to see the status of the others.

D'Artagnan was engaged in a swordfight with one of the other thieves, but his opponent was clearly wearing down, and Porthos could see that the young musketeer had the fight in hand. Athos had also just dropped one of the other thieves, and had turned towards the attack of another.

Aramis appeared to be flagging in his fight, and Porthos moved towards him to assist. Normally, Aramis would have no trouble, but he had just returned from a two day sole mission before the Inseparables had been dispatched to follow a lead on the band of thieves that had been plundering the royal vaults. Athos had nearly pushed him back into the garrison when Aramis had moved to join them, but, even tired, the marksman was persistent in his desire to go with them, and Athos had eventually relented. Now, following the fast-paced chase through the streets, two days with little to no sleep was starting to take its toll.

Porthos reached the pair in almost the same instant that the thief gained the upper-hand, and knocked Aramis about the head.

Aramis dropped like a rock.

Porthos narrowly avoided the thief's blade as he lunged after his friend, grabbing Aramis' wrist firmly before they both tumbled over the edge of the roof. Porthos' reached wildly with his right hand and managed to grip onto the edge of the roof's gutter.

The crack that followed would echo in his head for some time later.

Porthos released a loud, guttural yell as his right shoulder twisted out of its socket, sinking with the weight of holding two bodies and the speed with which they had been falling.

A hollow laugh sounded above Porthos, who could only concentrate on not letting go of either the roof or Aramis as the white hot pain shot through his shoulder and across his chest. He dangled helplessly, gasping in pain, and tried to resist the impulse to let go and release the pressure currently radiating down his arm and through his shoulder.

The thief that stood above him, moved to attack Porthos' white-knuckled fingers, only to find his sword intercepted by another.

D'Artagnan, having dispatched his own opponent, had seen the flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye as Porthos had lunged for Aramis' falling body, and had turned just in time to see both men fall off the side of the roof. As the echo of Porthos' harsh scream permeated the air, d'Artagnan crossed the distance in seconds, and pulled the thief away from where his two friends were now hanging.

Athos was still engaged with his opponent, but both he and his protégé fought with renewed vigour and the knowledge that they needed to end this fight fast.

D'Artagnan avoided the thief's lunge, and then swept past him, ramming his sword through the other man's chest. His action left his side open, and the thief glanced his sword off d'Artagnan's left arm. Had he performed such a manoeuvre in training, Athos would have had his head, but in the heat of battle, and with his friends' lives in the balance, he deliberately performed the ruffian, unprotected move in order to end the fight quickly.

His arm bled and smarted a little, but he could tell that it wasn't serious. He turned towards where his friends were hanging, without hesitation and, lying flat across the rooftop, looked over the edge.

"Porthos!" he shouted down.

Porthos grunted, but didn't speak. He'd turned a sort of grey colour, and his face was pinched tight in an expression of pain. Below him, Aramis dangled from his outstretched left hand, unconscious and completely dead weight.

"Porthos, I'm going to take your wrist," d'Artagnan called. "But I can't pull you both up until Athos gets here."

He got no response from his friend, put went ahead with his plan. Carefully, he wrapped both his hands around Porthos' strained right wrist, gripping it tightly. If Porthos' grip on the roof gutter should fail, the three of them would maybe have a few seconds extra grace before they all tumbled to the ground below.

Heavy footsteps rapidly approached from behind him, and d'Artagnan braced himself, preparing to reach for his weapon if he needed.

"It's me," Athos said as he came to kneel beside d'Artagnan, who closed his eyes briefly in relief.

Athos peered over the side to see his two brothers dangling from Porthos' bulging, dislocated shoulder.

"Together?" he asked d'Artagnan, who nodded, adjusting his position, so that he had better purchase on the rooftop.

"Porthos!" Athos shouted down. "This is going to hurt, but you have to stay awake until I can get a hold of Aramis!"

Porthos was beyond speaking by this point, sweat beading on his forehead as he fought to not give in to the overwhelming pain radiating from his shoulder joint. He managed a pain-filled grunt, and then braced himself as best he could. Swinging below him, Aramis remained totally oblivious.

"Ready?" Athos asked d'Artagnan, who nodded. "Okay, let's do it."

Athos reached down to grip Porthos' arm just below d'Artagnan's grip, and together, as one, they heaved their friends upward.

The movement jarred and twisted the abused shoulder joint and Porthos didn't hold back in his cry of absolute agony. He still did not let go of Aramis though. In fact, he tightened his grip. He felt his chest suddenly knock against the building edge, and a pair of hands disappeared from his wrist. His eyes were shut tight so he didn't see Athos reach past him, and take hold of Aramis. He did feel the sudden complete lack of weight beneath him.

Disorientated, he couldn't make himself let go, but he sighed in relief as he and Aramis were pulled fully back onto the rooftop.

Porthos collapsed on top of d'Artagnan, his chest heaving, consumed by nothing but pain, and an odd feeling of complete weightlessness.

"We've got you, you're up, we got you both," d'Artagnan attempted to reassure his friend, although he suspected Porthos was beyond hearing him by that point.

Carefully, Athos prised Porthos' fingers from Aramis' wrist. A hand shaped bruise was already starting to bleed to the surface of Aramis' skin, but really it was a small price to pay given the alternative. Athos quickly checked the marksman over, made sure that he was breathing evenly and that the head wound wasn't bleeding badly, and then moved over to where Porthos was still slumped on top of d'Artagnan, who had pulled him the rest of the way onto the roof after Athos had taken Aramis' weight.

"D'Artagnan?" Athos asked, concerned.

"I'm fine," d'Artagnan said. "I don't want to do his shoulder any more damage."

Athos realised why d'Artagnan had made no effort to move, and carefully approached Porthos' right side to examine the abused joint.

"It's a nasty dislocation," Athos told d'Artagnan. He wasn't sure if Porthos could hear him. "If I lift him off you, we can put it back in, and then have a doctor examine it properly once we reach the garrison."

"Sounds like a plan," d'Artagnan agreed, and waited patiently as Athos lifted Porthos into a seated position. Porthos grunted in pain, but made no other indication of awareness. D'Artagnan scrambled to join them.

"You hold him still," Athos instructed. D'Artagnan wordlessly tightened his grip around Porthos' chest.

Manipulating the limb back into its joint took longer than Athos would have liked, and he regretted that Aramis wasn't awake to help with the procedure. Beneath his grip, Porthos trembled and heaved, but made no other noise.

When the joint finally clicked back into place Porthos bellowed. From where he was positioned, d'Artagnan watched as Porthos' eyes rolled back into his head and he sunk wordlessly between his and Athos' grip.

"I can safely say that I did not enjoy that," Athos said warily.

"It needed to be done," d'Artagnan reassured his mentor, gently lowering Porthos onto his back, and folding the injured limb across the man's chest. "How's Aramis?"

"Head wound," Athos provided. "He'll probably have a concussion, but not much worse."

"Good," d'Artagnan said. "I'm going to track down some men to help carry them home and to take care of the thieves."

"Don't be long," Athos instructed, as he settled down between his two injured brothers.

"I don't plan to be."

D'Artagnan made it back with surprising speed with a few other men from the garrison and a cart for Porthos and Aramis. Together, the soldiers carried their injured friends down the many stairs of the warehouse and situated them into the cart. D'Artagnan settled in the back with them, and Athos took the driver's seat.

Once settled in the infirmary at the garrison, the doctor looked over his patients. Aramis' head-wound didn't need stitches, and the doctor instructed to let him sleep until he naturally awoke, especially given his level of exhaustion before the injury had occurred. The doctor then strapped up Porthos' arm and wrapped it in ice compresses to keep the swelling down. Finally, he bandaged d'Artagnan's arm under the watchful gaze of Athos who, fortunately for the Gascon, had not seen how the injury occurred.

The four brothers slept through the night, with d'Artagnan and Athos rising at dawn to deal with their various needs.

At mid-morning Porthos awoke. He shoulder was throbbing, but after the agony he'd felt the previous evening, he couldn't find reason to complain.

"Aramis?" he asked Athos after his still sleeping brother.

"Will probably have a nasty headache when he wakes up, but the doctor's confident he will," Athos supplied.

Satisfied for now, Porthos leant back into his pillows and allowed himself to doze.

He was awoken a little while later to Aramis fussing around him.

"Will you get off," he scowled at his brother, although he was relieved to see him awake. "You should be in bed."

"It's only a headache," Aramis said. "You on the other hand… What an earth did you do to your shoulder? It's severely swollen."

"I am aware. I dislocated it," Porthos said.

"How?" Aramis asked, just as Athos and d'Artagnan re-entered the infirmary bearing food.

Porthos looked at Aramis with hooded eyes.

"You need to stay in bed Aramis," Athos said, crossing the room. "You most likely have a concussion."

"I'm fine," Aramis protested, but allowed himself to be deposited back onto his bed, which was beside Porthos'. "What happened after I… I took a hit to the head. What happened after?"

"You were right next to the bloody edge," Porthos said, half scowling. "You dropped over the edge. I grabbed you."

"You grabbed me?" Aramis asked. Wordlessly he examined his bruised wrist, putting everything into place.

"Porthos—"

"You're forgiven," Porthos said shortly, anticipating his brother's concern. "Honestly, Aramis. You really expect me to let you fall to your death?"

"Of course not, but—"

"But nothing," Porthos interrupted. "Now I'm bloody starving."

Athos handed Porthos a bowl of stew, while d'Artagnan offered another to Aramis. The four brothers ate in relative silence and then Athos and d'Artagnan left the others to sleep.

It was some time later when Aramis attempted to speak to his friend.

"Porthos?"

"I'd trade my entire arm if it meant saving you, you know that right?" Porthos said, his eyes still closed where he lay in bed.

Aramis flinched.

"I rather you didn't," Aramis said. "But thank you."

"You're welcome," Porthos replied, before shifting his head a little.

As Porthos' snores filled the room, Aramis smiled sadly at the knowledge of the sacrifices his friend's would make for him… and him for them.


End file.
